


La Strega, il Fanatico, e il Truffatore, or The Witch, the Nerd, and the Crook

by AtomicDog



Category: Majo no Takkyuubin | Kiki's Delivery Service
Genre: Bad Jokes, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Friendship/Love, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Graphic Description of Corpses, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Morbid, Multi, Tragic Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-17
Updated: 2014-07-17
Packaged: 2018-01-27 02:37:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1711895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtomicDog/pseuds/AtomicDog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Salomon has served himself and others for near the entirety of his life. He is made to serve, and, soon, he realizes Koriko was made for him. Is service the same thing as love? He feels he knows the answer, but the words escape him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ballad of the Honorable Men

There spilt blood like a stream  
The sacred honorable men  
Wore they masks of darkly dream  
That all without honor grow to dread

Take them ghastly shapes  
The sprites, the ghouls, the dead  
Inside your house they break  
Upon their coldly metal stead

From sacred lines they are bred  
To feast and foul and shed  
The globe shall always inherit them  
For they are the forever sleeping beasts

Brethren they were, foul and fine  
Fathers they were, caring and kind  
But they are now the banes of time  
A kiss that burns on lips that pine

Young throats are seized and seep  
Flowing poison and dread sleep  
Their fangs into their mouths retreat  
Their treasures were once replete

But you become beneath and naught  
Where you want them to or not  
They are the honorable men  
And for this crime you must rot

Young throats tonight are slit  
Pity where the snakes have bit


	2. Rebirth

The bricks that make the buildings crumble with every passing year, bit by bit, the molecules escaping into the air, dust gathering in the streets. With every heavy and heavy-footed bootstep, newborn blackshirts make the earth of the dusty old city of Naples quake as they walk around, wearing overcoats woven from the shadows, their true nature hidden where it was once bright like the sun, for all to see. In a way, they were now closer to the people, as they now were meek and secretive like the people, where before, they resembled honorable men, their will, or at least the will of the Duke, the only thing that mattered to them. They were now “politicians” in the new government, their will now reduced to nothing but ghosts, haunting the graves of their dignity, and ghoulishly trampling on the graves of the will of honor. But they are irrationally and stupidly reasonable, at the very least, and old man Siffredi enjoyed that fact, as that meant that they were loose with their wallets, and so always wanted money. And now that the republic was rising once again, Lazarus arisen out of the magician’s box, the Siffredis were prophesying unexpected growth.

The business was reborn, like the men who entered it. Old man Siffredi was looking to put fresh feet on the ground. The money would flow like wine during the war. Life would become great, and Naples would become Elysium on Earth. Rocco never cared for it. For him, the money and the protection was good enough. Naturally: he was not from Naples, but "such thinking is prejudicial", he would say.  He felt he could be objective, and would kiss old man Siffredi’s ass; "the Tiber will overflow," he would joke, "and the crops will grow stronger than the cattle." But Salomon was never so hopeful. He never had reason to be otherwise. And cattle are quick and easy to frighten, and stampede. He wondered if cattle could ever feel enough contempt to rise up against the farmer, or if sheep could conspire to murder the sheepherder in the deepest part of the night.

“That’s a bad habit of yours, to be so negative,” said Rocco, his smile more of a reptilian grimace. “It’s no wonder Siffredi hasn’t called you to the business.”

“That habit is called ‘intelligence’. You pick it up if you read and write and use your brain,” said Salomon. “And Siffredi has not called me because he never takes young ‘whippersnappers’. As well as he shouldn’t.”

“Sal the Wise, dost thou think thee not so wise?” said Rocco through his daily wad of chewing tobacco. “What kind of ambition is it where you do not think you can be promoted, will not be promoted, and don’t want to be promoted?”

“The correct one. The one that actually works,” said Salomon, taking a bite out of a beautiful pear. “Have you ever wondered why Siffredi hasn’t given _you_ your buttons?”

Rocco was visibly rattled, unlike Salomon, stoicism Salomon often debated was a weakness or a strength according to convenience. Rocco was gangly, garishly thin, like the skeleton of a Spanish king, cursed with the blood of barbarian ancestors. And yet, he had a handsome face, seemingly sculpted out of marble by Michelangelo himself. He took great pride in his manhood as a result, and the women of Naples often took a shine to him. Being Italian, Salomon often found said women ugly, fat or not, though they were often the former, and his boring and safe ways were often found boorish and pathetic by women who would give themselves up even to pack mules. Salomon himself was unremarkable overall, and many fools often wondered whether he was not Neapolitan, when they knew he was fully Neapolitan, if not more so. With one of his Zanne, Rocco picked at his teeth, tasting the blood of those who had fallen victim to them, venom gathering in his mouth in anticipation. He wiped his Zanne of blood from the villa, young blood, quarry made product.

Salomon could hear the screams of a heifer hidden in the shadows, the dark corners of Rocco’s voice as he spoke, and a shiver rose up in Salomon’s spine; it was music to Salomon’s ears, the laments of ancient Roman aesthetics, having birthed an abomination of beauty. “I haven’t been called because Siffredi doesn’t trust Sicilians. And you’ll forgive me, dear friend, if I do not confuse your brilliant workplace tactics with a lack of ambition. I apologize for not recognizing such alleged and immense wisdom.”

“You do not think it’s because you are also too young?” stated Salomon as a matter of fact.

Rocco is not one to admit defeat, and merely smiled as he convinced himself he was victorious in this debate. “Ah. That is why they call you the Wise, and I am the Rock.”

“I thought they called you that because you were stupid,” said Salomon, taking another bite from the pear. “’Dumb as a rock’, the Americans say.”

“The Siffredi boys call me that because I am an institution…” began Rocco.

“Yes, you are,” said Salomon.

“…And by that, they mean that I have been here forever, longer than all other young punks.”

“You are the King of Punks,” said Salomon.

“ _Fotterti, figlio di puttana, Io ti ammazzo!_ ” cried Rocco in his native dialect, tackling Salomon onto the dirty stone stairs they were sitting on.

Salomon easily overpowered Rocco, rubbing his knuckles harshly against the top of Rocco’s head, the latter immediately calling for mercy. For a second, Salomon realized why this phantom, this sheep, this admitted wannabe was so popular with the women of the town. He seemed harmless, and seeming was the key. That these women were passed up for wives by the eligible bachelors of this generation was also a factor, but if that were the case, they would go for any of the other masculine, ineligible bachelors in the town. Rocco was like a boy, a teenager with a marble-coated body, a Greek god’s statue brought to life. That is also why he was so popular with many of the people in the bars, as he seemed appropriate, polite, inexperienced, probably working as a valet at a hotel or a waiter at a restaurant or working for his father, still living with his beloved and saintly mother. And, in a way, they were dead-on, but they were also wrong, dead wrong; and, afterwards, they would be broke, and the new TV would understandably vanish. Salomon wondered whether they would excuse the TV for being so impolite. Salomon also wondered whether his little brother could teach him something, being alive a year and a half less than he. He would finally be a hit with the ladies, instead of simply being invisible in the day and night.

“Siffredi will take you over me,” said Salomon, easing his death grip on Rocco’s twisting arm.

Rocco stopped struggling viciously against Salomon, freezing as his insecurities hit him once again like a pile of bricks. Salomon wondered if his insecurities ever bothered him while he was working.

“He doesn’t trust Sicilians. He would take me over you if I weren’t Sicilian,” said Rocco.

Salomon let go of Rocco’s arm, and regained his usual air of boring calm. He was drifting into thought. He was brooding. It’s something he did often, but not when discussing something that had nothing to do with him. In fact, that was why he was so good at earning. He knew everybody’s business, everything about the people of the city, or at least the ones that mattered. And that made him think he was worldly, and that doesn’t make you worldly, unless he knew the business of everyone in the entirety of the world, and that was impossible.

“What’s the matter with you?” said Rocco.

“He doesn’t trust you…Because you’re Sicilian,” said Salomon to the sky. “He is an idiot if he thinks such a thing. I should kill him for such poor thinking.”

“ _Stronzo!_ ” hissed Rocco, scolding him, unlike Salomon’s mother. “How can you say that so loud? He has given you everything, and you disrespect him like that? You idiot. _You’re_ an idiot. Do you want to make me look like a _pezzonovante_? Do you want to have Siffredi…?”

Rocco froze again, staring behind himself. Salomon looked at Rocco, and then looked at what he was staring at. Four cockroaches, their brown wings folded, smiles crooked, teeth worn from complete and arrogant neglect, hair oily, insultingly Italian, not Neapolitan, looked them over in complete silence. They had not existed before, and will not exist afterwards; not ghosts, simply cadavers, rotting and smelling like plague victims, the opposite of messiahs, distant cousins to cattle, and yet somehow with less intelligence, and far more vicious. It would be a stretch to call them _animali_ , as that would imply that they had more mercy, more feeling, more desires than insects, and yet more cunning and instinct than a spider, and spiders are arachnids.

One cockroach was carrying a snub nose, probably to compensate for his lack of one. Another was carrying a double-barrel Lunch-maker; he had eaten one too many lunches. The third was carrying Zanne, like Rocco’s, though his were unsheathed and rotten; he had no sheathes as he never earned them, or deserved them. And, finally, the fourth was unarmed, much like Rocco and Salomon were. Whilst Salomon maintained his usual veneer of calm, Rocco did not. A disgrace, thought Salomon, while pondering whether Rocco was stupid enough to pull out his Zanne after he had hidden them just as soon as they’d appeared.

“Shit-for-brains, Wise guy, the boss wishes to see you!” said the Lunch-eater, with more confidence than he could believably pull off.

“You’re not walking us anywhere,” said Salomon.

“The boss said you’d say that,” said the snake. “He said to say, ‘They’re not walking you anywhere. You come because I will you to.’”

Rocco looked nervous. Salomon felt nervous. And then, he laughed, as it was all very true.

§

“ _Signore_ Siffredi!” said one of the punks, as Siffredi walked out from behind the counter. They had walked Salomon and Rocco to old man Siffredi’s café, and he did not look pleased at all by it. Mario Cuneo was there, and, with his cane in hand, herded the four little black sheep out of the café door. They looked and sounded dejected, betrayed, so Cuneo gave them some money, and with that, they shuffled away to the west like the living dead, in the direction of the local cemetery. The customers at the café muttered, nodding their heads in disapproval. “I hated those guys anyway,” someone said. Salomon noticed that he knew all of the customers, and that made his heart jump into his throat.

And with them gone, old man Siffredi felt he could smile. Cuneo didn’t bother with his newfound freedom. He never did, all things considered. But that’s how he was.

“Salomon… My son,” cooed Siffredi, talking like he would a baby, his arms outstretched, almost as if he were expecting Salomon would hug him. “How much you’ve grown… You look beautiful.” This caused Rocco to look at Salomon again, to check if he had changed out of his usual baggy, smelly farm-boy overalls while he wasn’t looking.

“And Rocco,” said Cuneo, more acknowledging Rocco was present than acknowledging he deserved such a warm welcome.

“And Rocco!” cried Siffredi, knocking the wind out of Rocco as he tried to pat him on the head. “You slick son of a bitch you…” Old man Siffredi hugged them both, giving Rocco a brief, strong hug, and lingering with Salomon, his warmth crashing over Salomon like a herd of horses. He felt tears on his shoulder; Siffredi was sobbing.

“Don Siffredi… If you please. The men are anxious,” said Cuneo.

“Oh, right, right, of course…” mumbled Siffredi, wiping his tears with a handkerchief, and putting on his glasses. “Well, you know the drill, boys…

The men in the café stood up in unison, moving the chairs and tables against the wall, leaving a great hole in the café room where they stood against the northern edge, forming a loose horseshoe with their bodies. They were all one of the family. Siffredi and Cuneo joined them, standing in the very middle of the horseshoe. The room suddenly went dark; someone had pulled the drapes. The café was almost completely dark, save for what little light was allowed through the covered windows.

“ _Mio Dio_ …,” whispered Rocco, shuffling, shivering to the middle of the horseshoe.

“There is no god here,” whispered Salomon, stiff, shuffling to the middle of the horseshoe. "Just as good."

Mario Cuneo held a candle and a deck of cards in each of his hands. A man cloaked in the darkness lit the candle with a match. The candle only illuminated Siffredi's and Cuneo's faces like moons on a starless night sky. Siffredi looked older in the shadows than he already was, and Cuneo more like a lifeless golem than he already was. Siffredi held a dagger in his hands. He pricked Salomon in the finger, squeezing the blood out of his finger and onto the floor, and doing the same to Rocco, who hissed.

“You will repeat after me, exactly, whilst the card burns in your hand,” commanded Cuneo. “’With the blood spilt from me, I am born again as a man of honor, honor taken from me by God using the family I did not choose, and taken back again with the family I choose. My name, from this day forward, shall be Salomon Siffredi, and I swear my eternal loyalty to my chosen family. To betray it is death. To speak is to have no honor. And should I loose my honor by betraying my family by speaking, may I burn in hell as this saint burns in my hand…’”


	3. Baptism

_Pezzonovante_. “Big shot”. It is a word popular amongst the Sicilians, and a word especially popular with Rocco and those stupid enough to think him inspirational or praise-worthy, and, to Salomon’s amusement and embarrassment, he included himself among such a band. Its meaning can vary from person to person, and even every person can have many different understandings of the word. Its intent can be to insult, or to praise, though it is often depending on just how able the so-called big shot is, as, traditionally, the person who calls another this will not be forthcoming, or at least dodge, his or her intent. Most interestingly, one can possess all of the qualities that carry the connotation, or even none of them, though some would say it being the latter would make it a shallow insult; Salomon refuses to believe such a thing, at the very least, and that’s good enough for him, at least until the Siffredis make an official ruling on it.

If the receiver is an idiot, then it is likely that it is in its insulting form. It means to have balls too big for your body, to pretend to have balls you don’t have, to overly depend on your balls; “balls” is another popular word. Quite simply, a _pezzonovante_ is someone who is overly confident, overly ambitious, quick to anger and quick to use violence to solve his or her problems. In a positive context, a _pezzonovante_ is a big earner, someone who knows how to make money, someone that possesses the best amounts of intelligence, ambition, skill, and confidence to flourish, to prosper, and in turn to help others flourish and prosper.

Regardless of context, believe it or not, a man of honor (or woman; it’s happened) should NEVER be in a position where he is seen as a _pezzonovante_ by his or her colleagues and superiors. Even when they’re good, _pezzonovante_ are also, with very few exceptions, bad for business. They are like rock stars. There can be no rock stars in the business. They attract too much attention, and are like lighthouses on a foggy, moonless moor, beacons of radiance in dark alleyways. Men of honor should always exist in between the lines, in the light, but also never entirely leaving the dark: “be good, but never too good,” one can say, especially when you know that competitors watch you, and especially if you are in business with competitors (in a way, that makes them allies or business partners, but they are never fully either of those things, ever).

Why is the business in this eternal state of enforced mediocrity, you ask? Because of human nature. A _pezzonovante_ , sooner rather than later, will gain an ego. That ego will then transform into lofty ambitions. Then, those lofty ambitions turn into delusions of grandeur. And then, problems happen, like when Big Bertha murdered 17 of her own girls in vengeance against Tinto Berlusconi for not paying her dues, or when Boss Umberto started a war with near the entirety of Italy over an acre of land, or the Family Massacres of 1912, where two families of the same clan managed to extinguish each other out over a minor murder vendetta, leaving the third family to rule in peace. Or, even worse, they break the code of eternal silence, and expose the entirety of the business to the cattle and brownshirts and pigs. _Pezzonovante_ can be easily identified by how much they are unwilling to believe that they can become overly ambitious or traitorous, and often so intrinsically opposed to the idea of _pezzonovante_.

It has happened before, and will likely happen again, but will not if the Siffredi brothers have any say in it. For the first time in a decade, they’d come together to celebrate Salomon and Rocco’s being made. For a second, you may think they loved each other, giving the customary kisses on the cheek, and Giorgio even embracing his brother, old man Siffredi. But that is because they are men of honor, and a man of honor never reveals his emotions to his enemies, or to anyone, if he can help it. Which was good, since Salomon didn’t want anyone to realize he was terrified of his newfound status. Rocco, the simpleton, was smiling and playing the piazza outside of old man Siffredi’s stately home like a fiddle. The Chianti poured from the Siffredi clan’s private collection, blood of a broken cradle.

The party was a haughty, tense façade of “fun”, illuminated only partially by the gas street lamps surrounding the piazza, lining the streets around it, and by the half-gaze of waning moonlight. Salomon recognized many of the attendees as locals, but nothing more; indeed, he’d spotted many a person whom he could not keep a straight face nearby them, considering what they didn’t know about him. They also had a look that said they didn’t want to be there either, but had been “invited” by old man Siffredi (read, conscripted), and therefore had to go. They were at least attempting to enjoy themselves, but the women kept staring at the Siffredis, the musicians playing a local tarantella were nervous, herky-jerky. The men looked annoyed, if not outright outraged, refusing to dance, nursing beer or whatever Chianti they were offered by a Siffredi; the Chianti was for members only.

The Siffredis and their associates seemed to be the only people enjoying themselves, and were doing so at the expense of the other guests; they grabbed women and forced them to dance, played “pranks” on the men (poured wine on them was very popular), and made outrageous demands of the musicians. They all carried guns of one kind or another. Rather than try to meet new people, Salomon did what he always did: he found a comfortable spot near the makeshift “bar” one of Siffredi’s goons had set up to control the flow of chianti; the midwife, if you will. Salomon wondered whether there was a grieving mother under the bar, sucking his cock to stave off his boredom. Maybe it was a little boy instead, and the grieving mother was elsewhere?

Very soon, his presence there attracted some of the local talent, coming to congratulate him with kisses on the cheek, pats on the shoulder, and toasts of Chianti. Salomon was certain a few were genuine, especially the veterans, whose balls had shrunken and died years ago, and wanted only peace, quiet, and money. The young ones’ eyes were like daggers, piercing, almost as if they were thirsty for Salomon and Rocco’s blood. The Siffredis, despite being old, had the same intensity about them; young, violent men in the tired bodies of old wizards…Was there anything more dangerous?

“These boys, eh, Giorgio?” yelled old man Siffredi at the top of his lungs. “These boys are gonna make me rich!”

“Sal, you motherfucker…I should steal them from you! Make them cut your fucking head off!” said Giorgio, laughing like a madman.

“Yes, that would be best; if they cut yours, they would only shed dust and sand,” said old man Siffredi, slapping Giorgio in the back, causing him to cough uncontrollably.

Old man Siffredi was now swiveling his head on his neck, looking for someone. “Where the fuck is that shit baby brother of mine…Roberto! Roberto, you stupid jerk, come kiss me!”

“Ah, Salvatore…Looking…Middle-aged, as always,” said Roberto, making his way through the partygoers, puffing on a cigarette on a holding stick in his thin, small hands.

Salomon couldn’t help but like Roberto Siffredi, purely out of what felt like gentlemanliness, while also out of respect. He was like a woman, delicate, gardening, and whenever he walked, he pranced or strutted, like a peacock. He also seemed to genuinely respect Salomon. Plus, he was the most successful of the brothers, and a healthy respect for the biggest earner of the family is always helpful, as opposed to a fake one. That was another thing about Roberto: he was smart, smarter than old man Siffredi, and much smarter than Giorgio, who was little more than a gorilla that barely fit in a very large tuxedo.

“Quite fitting, really,” said Roberto. “I’m the eldest, Salvatore is in the middle, and Giorgio is the youngest, despite being the biggest… And the hairiest.”

“What the fuck are you talking about, Roberto?” said old man Siffredi.

“I had asked earlier about the family, Don Siffredi,” said Salomon, smiling at Roberto, who gave a sly grin back. “I was curious about your heritage.”

“And smart too,” said Roberto. “How…Interesting.”

But there was something…Strange about him.

“Queer, you might say,” said Roberto, causing Salomon to look directly at him in surprise.

He wondered if Roberto could read minds, or whether Salomon was just that predictable.

“You are indeed that predictable,” said Roberto, causing Salomon to laugh. “That is what you are all about, after all. You’re one of the best handicappers in the city.”

“You fucking loving him so much, why don’t you fucking hire him to massage you like your cabana boys,” said old man Siffredi.

“I thought he was massaging you,” said Roberto. Salomon widened his eyes in amazement for a second; he’d never heard anyone talk to old man Siffredi that way before.

“Oh ho, very funny hypocrite brother I have, eh, Sal, calling me a fucking fairy,” said old man Siffredi. “He’s the best earner I ever saw bet on the ponies. Better than any of your sissy boys.”

“I figured I could never buy him from you. And I’d be right, wouldn’t I, Sal-dear-boy?” said Roberto, puffing on his cigarette.

Salomon’s heart skipped a beat as the words more or less erupted out of his mouth. “That’s right, Mr. Roberto. Don Siffredi has been good to me all my life. I swore loyalty to him as a result, until my death.”

For a second, Roberto’s face scrunched in slight disappointment, with a bit of annoyance, as if the cigarette in his holder seemed to grow bitter for a second. “Pity. _Ciao_ , Sal-baby.”

Roberto strutted away, aloof, looking up at the night sky, ignorant of the cattle and button men that automatically shoved and shuffled out of his way, as though he were taking a stroll in the park, and he knew the trees themselves would part way to allow him to continue uninterrupted.

“There’s something wrong with that boy, Sal,” whispered old man Siffredi, a caution carried by the wind. “You stay the fuck away from him. He’ll put your balls in a vice.”

“No problem, Don Siffredi,” said Salomon.

“Good boy. Here, I need to get my medicine. Help me up to my house,” said old man Siffredi.

Salomon took him by the arm, as he was mildly drunk, and, compounded by his old age, caused him to be quite unsteady. Salomon looked up at the house, a mild twinge of suspicion: the house lights were on, as he could now see through the closed drapes on the inside of the windows. He wondered if there was someone in the house, and what it meant. He gripped tightly onto old man Siffredi, to use as a shield should there be anything, or anyone inside; though, he then realized it would be someone, as there was a very, very short list of God’s creatures in the world that were not impossible to acquire and could harm him in anyway.

Old man Siffredi’s house was small, antiquated, with archways too small for a large number of people. Salomon chuckled to himself as images of medieval dwarfs pranced through old man Siffredi’s house, forcefully dressing him in a jester’s outfit, saying he was to be the one to entertain the king of dwarfs. I suppose it made sense to Salomon, that a short man like the old man wouldn’t bother modernizing the house to fit other people. Salomon almost burst out laughing when an image came to him of a very tall and expensive prostitute dressed like Snow White carrying a drunken Salvatore in both her arms to his bed, only half identical to what he was doing now. Well, more than half, unless the old man was expecting to have sex with him, in which case he’d laugh before he whipped his penis out, not after, like the prostitute would. Old man Siffredi was getting sleepy. He mumbled under his breath about things Salomon didn’t understand, his face twisting and scrunching like a hound-dog’s. The many wrinkles on his face made him look like a desert. “Roberto…Don’t throw the ball…” Salomon assumed he was dreaming whilst he was awake. He shook and called to the old man.

“Mr. Siffredi…You’re talking in your sleep,” he said, gentle and quiet.

“Oh, yeah…That happens when I drink chianti,” slurred the old man.

With his free hand, Salomon opened the door to the old man’s room, squeezing through the door frame as he was almost swept away by a gale of cold air. The old man was wealthy, and he’d installed something called an air conditioner in the room; it made the room cold, like the mountains in the north. It was an old invention made new thanks to the years, history made into the contemporary, tradition transformed into innovation. If only the old man could be so reinvented. Salomon could almost hear his bones creak as he climbed into his big bed, empty save for pillows and a big fat blanket; Salomon found it ridiculous, that he cooled the room, only to protect himself from the cold. But he let the old man have his comforts; he’d earned them, in his own way.

But how does one such as he retire, you may ask? When he is tired, is a reasonable answer. He shall have no more of it. He has gained his freedom to ascertain when he is tired. He is unlike others. That’s what Cuneo would say.

“And I do say it,” he said, standing behind the door.

Salomon gasped inaudibly, though the look of fright on his face was enough to showcase his vulnerability at the moment. He chose not to deny it with his expressions, but rather to chide Cuneo on things he knew would bother him. “You’re a mind reader, then?” he said. “How wizened of you, old man.”

“Unfortunately for you, you’re just that obvious, Salomon,” jeered Cuneo, but with no humor. He was all business tonight, uncharacteristically so.

“Something happen to drive you out of your stupor?” mocked Salomon back. “Your mother die or something?”

“No. No games tonight, Salomon Siffredi.”

The words froze Salomon to the core. Cuneo was usually droll, boring, icy, a glacier in a summer pagoda in a tropical paradise, a frozen desert, a polar wasteland. Such a feeling shouldn’t shock him. He suddenly craved a cigarette. He hadn’t craved them for years, since he was a boy. Since the last night he was a boy. The coldness crawled through his fingers and make him quake, a shifting of tectonics too abysmal to notice, even by those experienced in detecting such human weaknesses. And yet, Cuneo saw it. He may have anticipated it. He probably even planned it. As his frozen façade cracked to reveal a lifeless smile, Salomon confirmed that he expected it.

He moved to the window, and sat on one of the great leisure chairs kept for people waiting to see the Don. They would go unused tonight. No business tonight. “Sorry to ruin your little inauguration, but the old man isn’t one for business. I guess that’s why he got me. Very Sicilian of him. He treats me like his butler,” he said.

“And you love it, don’t you?” accused Salomon.

“Of course. Was I implying otherwise? I need you to do something for me, Sal.”

“You mean, I need to do something for the old man.”

“Right. Sorry. For the old man.”

Salomon was set at ease by the snores of old man Siffredi. He stared at Cuneo. By his right eye, a drop of sweat descended ever so slightly. He was petty in the way he took Cuneo sweating as some kind of victory. Nevertheless, he was more calm.

“I thought there was no business today,” said Salomon, sitting in the chair farthest from Cuneo.

“That’s what the old man said,” said Cuneo, sounding bored.

“He said it for a reason, then,” said Salomon.

“You’re not as dumb as you look,” said Cuneo. “The old man needs someone he can trust. I advised against you, but for some reason he trusts you.”

“I have always been loyal to Don Siffredi,” insisted Salomon. “I am now, and I always will be.”’

“I’m sure. I guess he’s sure too… And you’re expendable as well. Really, you’re a dream come true.” Cuneo laughed.

“…What is this about, Cuneo?”

“Thing is, kid, business has been slow for old man Siffredi. He is slow, and his family…His family is costing him, in his brain, in his heart, and in his wallet. The love of his dear family will kill him. Unless…Unless you do this for him.”

“Cut to it, you old golem.”

“Fine. Siffredi wants to open up some business…Without his brothers knowing about it. You will go out of the country. Up north. Things are good there. Maybe the people are bored, and will part with their money easily.”

“Maybe?” Salomon laughed.

“Yes, maybe. Don’t worry. If you fuck up, the blame won’t be entirely on you. Siffredi has ‘friends’ up there. They want in. They’ll set us up. You can cut them off if they get too rowdy.”

“I don’t have a choice, do I?”

“You had to ask? Old man Siffredi will consider this a great favor. That’s how this shit works, kid.”

“Can I take Rocco with me? That way he can make his bones.”

“Take whoever the fuck you want. Just get it done. The plane leaves in a week. And take a coat with you. It gets rather cold up there in the winters.”

“A different kind of cold. I guess I should listen to you. You’re like a blizzard expert. What are you going to do in the mean time?”

“Sip chianti. Those are the perks of putting work in. Do good, and the ‘company’ will cheer you. Isn’t that what you want?”

“Sure.”


	4. Seas of Flight

Gales emerged from the atmosphere, ghosts from outside of the World, revolving around the solar graves, as alien as flowers in a tundra. They shone through the windows of the plane, burning Salomon and Rocco’s faces with a fiery green tender kiss, so gentle it moved not the great and powerful machine, but moved all of the passengers within. Rocco hadn’t seen such things before, and gasped and awed with the other passengers, cursing demons and phantoms in his sentimental encryption. But Salomon had heard the stories, and did not start, as his beloved sleep grabbed him back from the winged metal leviathan, keeping him only for herself. It was the purring of the beast: she wielded it like a crusader wields a sword, or a bard plays the lyre; her machinations wrapped him in her clutches, and sent him on his way. Sleep was a specter, but not in her fleeting nature. She was vicious in her perseverance. Sleep was a poltergeist, stalking in the darkness of the cabin, a wolf hunting whilst being hunted, as another sprite of antiquity competed against her. But that was the mystery. There were many sprites that sought her betrayal. And though she struggles against them in eternal crusade, sleep often gains merely pyrrhic victories. For sleep believed in subtlety, in lullabies and softly spoken ballads and lyrical whispers. But the armies of light were not so subtle, and raged against the dying of the light. Rocco was annoying. He brayed, cursed, spoke, shouted. He hissed, tasting and licking the air.

“Did you see that shit?” gasped Rocco.

“Rocco, are you going to be shocked by everything you come across? You’re like a goddamn baby country boy,” hissed Salomon, from the farthest reaches of his drowse.

Rocco was silent for a while. “Well, I haven’t seen any of these things before. I was raised in the country,” he said; he sounded hurt.

“I didn’t realize,” said Salomon. “I thought Palermo was a city.”

“It is, _paisano_. But I will admit, you wouldn’t know by looking at it. My papa always said it was just a big village. It will be worthy of the title one day. It’ll be greater than Naples, even,” said Rocco, proud.

“Don’t fucking call me _paisano_. We’re not no fucking _paisanos_ no more,” mumbled Salomon.

“Oh ho,” chuckled Rocco. “I’m sorry. _Mi scusi, signore, uomo d’onore_. You’re not the king of the world, either, your highness.”

“Stop talking like that,” said Salomon.

“Like what? Like an Italian?”

“Yes. We’re supposed to be incognito.”

“Now who’s talking like an olive squeezer?”

“That’s not what they call Italians.”

“Really? That’s the most offensive thing I could think of…”

“Maybe you should be practicing these scumbags’ language before we land so that way you can understand when they’re calling you a limp-dicked dago.”

“What’s a dago? And who the fuck are you calling limp-dicked?”

“Did the dinner cart come?”

“Yes. You were asleep, so I got you some fish and chips in my bag, like you like.”

“Story of my life. Hand it over.”

“Story of your life? You have the nerve to say that; you’re the best handicapper in Naples.”

“Which isn’t saying much. The numbers were way low when they opened the books, it had to be. I half-expected them to bury me.”

“You’re kidding; how come they didn’t, you think?”

“I did a favor for old man Siffredi. It had to have been that. Plus, I guess my trick worked. But I was just barely making the numbers.”

“Trick? What trick?”

“It was easy. When I made a good bet, I collected. When I made a bad bet, I told the bookies that I made a good bet, and they’d have to pay me anyway.”

“That’s impossible. How can you say you made a good bet? Wouldn’t they write it down?”

“Sure. But it was clearly a mistake. A Siffredi man couldn’t loose.”

“But you… Weren’t a Siffredi man until a few weeks ago, Sal.”

Salomon laughed sleepily, chewing on his meal. “After they heard that I was, they never seemed to follow through.”

 It took Rocco a while to get the joke, at which point he smiled.

“For being so charming, you’re not very bright,” said Salomon, crunching on his chips.

“I find the ladies are never so interested in my mind, so much as my cock, He he…”

“If you could call the hags you bed regularly ladies,” said Salomon. Memories of Rocco’s many “girlfriends” coursed through his mind. “I think I just lost my appetite.”

“Pussy is pussy, my friend. That is why I’m so friendly and people trust me so much, and you’re so plain and boring and maybe even... A bit scary. I’ve wondered at times if you’ve lost your virginity…”

Salomon laughed. “If you must know, I did.”

“Aha. So we do have something in common… Tell me about it, O Sal the Wise.”

“Like a child, you enjoy stories… Fine.”

Salomon scuffed his hands together, the crumbs from the fish and chips falling onto the plate and paper wrap Rocco used to keep the food somewhat warm. “But, quietly, eh?”

“Of course,” said Rocco. He inched closer to Salomon, like a child at rapt attention as Salomon began his story.

“I only remember bits of it. It was in the summer, right before I turned fourteen. I remember the warm ocean and the hot sand, and my mother was happy, and my father was happily drunk, and my brothers and sisters were in the sand and the hills, picking flowers and seashells. My father had sold all of his cases of wine, like he usually does in the summer, and he was in unusually high spirits, and so took us on vacation to the southern coast. I do forget where his house was. It was near the beach that I was recruited to play a game of football by some of the locals: kids, older and younger, brothers, cousins, classmates. They said I was pasty, but I would have to do. I surprised them; I was, after all, quite good at it in school. I remember we liked the same football club. I was a good goalie, and I could pass, but I was a terrible shooter. The goals, I remember, were these four rocks, tall like pillars, at odd angles. Our ‘field’ was angular, irregular, and asymmetrical. Like your cock.”

“Fuck you,” said Rocco. “Get on with it.”

“…So, they played, and I saved many shots, and, soon, many girls and adults started to gather around to watch us, my family included. My father egged me on. But, after a while, I started to get distracted. On the sidelines, behind one of the rocks, there was a girl who was making fun of me. She was older than me. She had grown her breasts out, and her rear was quite large. She had a mane of red hair, a Vesuvian beauty. She called me a ghost, and ‘Snow White’. I shouted back at her, asking her if I wanted to fuck her. I heard her say ‘yes’, and turned around. I couldn’t believe what I’d heard. The ball hit me on the side of the head, hard, very hard. I had saved the goal, but I was covered in blood. The ball had knocked one of my milk teeth straight out of my head. But my father was eager to dismiss it, and while I didn’t go to the hospital, my mother forced my father to not make me play. The other kids took pity on me, and said they wished I’d stayed, as I was a good goalie. The girl was gone. Later in the day, as the sun was going down, she appeared again. She had my tooth. She’d picked it up from the sand, and asked if I wanted it back. I told her ‘no’, to keep it as a souvenir. She laughed, and we shared sodas and cheese. We talked about everything that night. My parents were in the house, and she said I was so lucky to have a house right next to the beach, as she lived in the country, and would have to leave in a few days, back to her town, where no boys would have sex with her, as she was the ‘ugliest’ girl in the town; ridiculous, it goes without saying…”

“I assume you’re finally getting to the good part…” mumbled Rocco.

“Are you fucking falling asleep? Why the hell did you ask me to tell you the story, then?” steamed Salomon.

“You’re taking too long…Just get to the good stuff,” said Rocco, slapping himself, somewhat annoyed.

“That _was_ the good stuff. I was in love with the girl. What more do you want?”

“The _good_ stuff,” blubbered Rocco.

“Maybe I’ll leave your mind with blue balls,” threatened Salomon.

“Okay, okay, I apologize…Continue. I am listening. Honest, I am.”

“Despicable… Where was I…?”

Salomon wondered if the look of concern and defeat on Rocco’s face was whether he’d stabbed himself in the back for interrupting Salomon with his drowsiness, or whether he actually cared he’d hurt Salomon’s feelings. He seemed to imagine someone had glued his eyes open, as he strained to keep them open for the rest of the time. However, after a while of listening, as Salomon got to the racier stuff, he seemed to genuinely be sitting at attention.

“…I didn’t think about that, I never thought about it that way, and, really, she didn’t let me think about it. She asked me if I wanted to kiss her, and I was hesitant. But I was feeling hot. I had kissed girls before, so I did. And I kissed her, longer and longer. She tasted bitter. But the way she smelled is what made me want to stay. She hadn’t gone in the ocean. My sisters always smelled like that, like sweat and salt and bitterness, like rough skin, like judgment upon my head. This girl smelled like she’d been lying in flowers. Hell, she smelled like she was rolling around in them. Her bathing suit slipped off easily. I’d read books and magazines that my mother and father owned on how to do it. Her skin was a bit rough, a bit soft, and cool to the touch, like expensive linen sheets. I realize now, that’s what most women feel like. None of them are soft enough. I realized that then, and it made me want to wrap my arms around her. I treasured her. We gave heat to each other in the cold of the night. I was like some kind of possessed creature, not a man. I was not myself. I took her long hair in my hands and pulled on it as I sank my tongue deeper into her mouth. My lower lip became easy prey. She bit me…”

“The slut,” said Rocco.

“You only say that because your ‘women’ are accustomed to eating grass,” said Salomon.

“I should kill you for that. Continue.”

“You asked for it… I tasted the blood. It was familiar. I shed some tears. She told me to swallow my blood, and then taste hers. My heart was beating out of my chest. I was…Afraid of her. But she felt it, and told me I shouldn’t be afraid of her. I was strong and proud, like her. She tasted it, saw it within me. I was a prince, and she a princess. So I bit her back. She gasped, like a frightened girl. And she shed tears too. And we laughed. We both laughed. And she said I feared like her as well. And she held me so close. She wrapped her legs around me. Her breasts touched against my chest. She tickled me, her nose like a brush on my neck. She rocked on my lap. I wondered if she knew anything about sex. She only rubbed against the outside of my swim trunks. She was wetting herself. She scratched at my back, but she had no nails to harm me with. She laughed. She said she’d chewed them off. She pushed my head down, against her chest. She said my hair was tickling her nipples. We were burning and laughing and joking. I was hard at all the excitement. But soon, she became quiet. She wondered if it would hurt her. I told her to be brave, like she taught me to be. She said ‘yes!’ asked me to fuck her, to put it in her. I told her to turn around, and sit forward from me. I didn’t grab her breasts. I cupped them from underneath, to keep them from bouncing. She said to keep them there, and to massage her underneath them. I eased my tip into her. And then I told her to sit. I slid into her, and she breathed in. She said it only hurt a little, that I wasn’t as big as other boys, and that she was always afraid it would hurt. She was laughing so much. She started to hop, up and down, up and down. Her ass was like a trampoline. I cut into her like a Spanish galleon on the Atlantic. And she breathed for me. Ha!”

Salomon had been enraptured in his own story. But his expression dulled. The fire, the passion, the whiteness had gone from his eyes. His eyes turned down, and then out to the cold air outside of the airplane. A sheet of ice had formed on the wings. He wondered what was keeping the plane from falling out of the sky, what kept them warm, what kept the wings warm.

“But…It was coming. It was coming up. It felt so good. I didn’t expect it. All I felt was pain as I felt something come up. I screamed. I pushed her off me, she didn’t fall on the sand. She stood up and I saw terror and horror descend upon her. I was screaming at the pain. She told me to stop screaming. I was calling for my mother. But the girl embraced me, and caressed me. And she whispered in my ear: ‘I love you. Please don’t cry. I’m so sorry I hurt you. I don’t know what I did wrong. I’m so scared. If they find us, I don’t care. But every time you scream it makes me want to scream. I’ll let my father put me in a convent. I deserve it.’ But I whimpered back: ‘Never. It’s nothing. I’m sorry. It just felt painful…I don’t know what happened either. It felt so good, but then it was just pain. I love you too. You didn’t hurt me. It won’t help if you cry too.’ I wonder now if she thought I was insincere. She looked so guilty, so ashamed the next day, when her family invited my family over for pierogi. I stood up form next to my father, and walked to where she was, sitting next to her father. They all laughed and said we were to be married. She left the day after that. She kissed me good bye. All she kept saying was, ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’ I was confused, and didn’t say anything back. I watched her as she left the town in the family truck. She rode in the back, separated from everyone else. She looked at me. I swear, she was crying as she saw me disappear into the horizon. But I was young. I was confused. I was so scared, so full of sorrow, so like a frightened deer, I stood there, watching the horizon, hoping in vain I could catch one. Last. Look at her. Ursula. Ursula was her name. And all I remember from it was the pain.”

Salomon had looked out the window of the plane the whole time. The full moon was set against the sky, dim and dull, like a bulb close to death, an idea that’d lost its luster and it’s brilliance to naysaying. On its face was a silhouette, which Salomon thought at first was an odd-shaped cloud. The lightning aurora borealis shone across the silhouette’s face. He thought her part of the moon, white as her face was. His own eyes burned in their sockets as he beheld her. He could hear the other passengers shuffling to see the northern lights. Salomon looked at her and it was like looking at the sun. His mouth, his nostrils, his face, his whole body burned with fire. And then she was gone, an apparition of a holy spirit.

“Rocco, did you see that?” gasped Salomon.

Rocco gave a snore in response. Salomon looked to him, and wondered how long he had been asleep.

He himself tried to go back to sleep, but in his dreams the pain was only more intense, her face more visible, more clear, through the haze of memory. Spaniard reavers havered in the waning hours, speaking in twisted tongues a language that should be familiar. It was soon as the voices stopped, and the sun had exploded, disappearing and giving him comfort in the darkness, that the greatest nightmare came. His heart began to beat uncontrollably. He sought breath, and did not find it. No nightmare besought him. He was awake. He was fresh. He was feeling in the shocking, blazing flame of reality.

He felt burns all over his body. The sun was burning him. The light was burning him. He thirsted for reprieve in a barren wasteland. His very soul burned and screamed at him. He could do nothing to stop it. He was perfectly still, and yet his body was in the throes of death. Painful. Chafing. Charcoaled, singed skin throttling his soul. He felt her hands on his shoulder. She did not tear or even pull harshly, only caress it, and the pain as every pore of her hands flailed him, high tide and low tide, misplaced tenderness, biting kiss, rooted nails, bleeding against him, longing for his understanding, ointments long dry in the wilderness, made him wish he’d die.

Sunburned in winter country.


End file.
